As a child, I took swimming lessons but never truly learned how to swim. Fear held me back, leading to a halt in my efforts. Perhaps it was the jellyfish sting I experienced in the Chesapeake Bay that first instilled that fear. Or maybe it was witnessing my younger brother almost drown in a motel pool, with my father—who also couldn’t swim—jumping in to save him. Eventually, it was my mother, grounded in reality, who had to extend a pool pole to rescue them both.
Regardless of the reasons, when my own children were born, I was determined they would not just float but could save themselves. My husband also lacked swimming skills, which only fueled my resolve. Throughout preschool, I took my daughter, Lily, to weekly swimming lessons. But by the end, she completely regressed, refusing even to dip her toes in the water.
“You don’t have to go anymore,” I finally told her.
“Thank you so much, Mommy,” she replied, wrapping her arms around my neck.
I repeated this cycle with Lily’s younger sister, Mia, but I gave up even more quickly this time, as she too lost her confidence. I cherished the hugs that accompanied their relief, yet they broke my heart. I envisioned my daughters growing up feeling sidelined, just as I had.
Then, seemingly overnight, both of my children discovered their confidence in the water and taught themselves how to swim. One memorable summer day, I watched in awe as Lily raced down the pool’s edge, whooping with joy as she leaped into the deep end without hesitation. Normally, I might have scolded her for running, but my own failures hit me hard, causing tears to well in my eyes while I stood in a hot tub. Thankfully, no one noticed as I quickly searched for my sunglasses and buried my face in a book.
That same summer, we visited Hawaii, where our friend Sarah, an enthusiastic swimmer residing on Oahu’s North Shore, organized a kayaking adventure for herself and Lily. It was a stunning launch into the waves, but I felt a wave of anxiety as Lily vanished into the distance. When they returned, five-year-old Mia eagerly demanded, “My turn,” and without waiting for my approval, she switched places with Lily and paddled out to sea, leaving me on the beach pretending to be calm.
Upon their return, Sarah asked if I wanted to try kayaking. Shocked, I thought of countless reasons to decline. I’ll drown. I’ll get water up my nose. My hair will get wet. But I imagined a future where I was always the observer, stranded on the shore with a forced smile. In a moment of clarity, I gripped Sarah’s strong shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Can you save me if necessary?” I asked, remembering her morning swims alone in the Pacific.
“Yes,” she assured me.
With that, I donned the life vest and climbed into the kayak. Before I knew it, we were laughing and paddling together amid the waves, feeling the ocean’s strength beneath us. I glanced to the right and saw Lily waving from a rocky ledge. I waved back, and when I reached the shore, Lily dashed down the beach and enveloped me in a hug, understanding the significance of my being out there.
However, I still didn’t learn to swim that summer or the next. My marriage dissolved, and two years later, my daughters and I joined the local YMCA. There, I experienced my first swimming lesson in three decades. Yes, my hair got wet, and I got water up my nose. Yet, I didn’t drown, although I still didn’t swim. Life’s demands—divorce, work, parenting—interfered, and I never completed my lessons.
For a long time, I viewed my inability to swim as a failure I passed on to my daughters. There was a period when they seemed to mirror my shortcomings, but both eventually conquered their fear of water. This left me questioning, “How could that happen?” While it’s conceivable I may learn to swim someday, I’m also aware that I might not. It’s not a point of pride to be unable to swim, but I’ve come to terms with it. What matters more is that my daughters witnessed my attempts to confront my fears. Thus, I believe the most valuable legacy I can leave them is the understanding that facing challenges—even when I struggle—is a success in itself.
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Summary
This narrative reflects on the author’s struggles with swimming and parenting, highlighting the importance of perseverance and facing fears, while acknowledging the contrasting successes of her daughters in learning to swim. The legacy left behind is not one of failure but rather an inspiration to try in the face of difficulties.
Keyphrase: Parenting and Overcoming Fears
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